In the Library

by W. W. Jacobs

　　The fire had burnt low in the library, for the night was wet and warm.It was now little more than a grey shell, and looked desolate. TraytonBurleigh, still hot, rose from his armchair, and turning out one of thegas-jets, took a cigar from a box on a side-table and resumed his seatagain.The apartment, which was on the third floor at the back of the house, wasa combination of library, study, and smoke-room, and was the dailydespair of the old housekeeper who, with the assistance of one servant,managed the house. It was a bachelor establishment, and had been left toTrayton Burleigh and James Fletcher by a distant connection of both mensome ten years before.Trayton Burleigh sat back in his chair watching the smoke of his cigarthrough half-closed eyes. Occasionally he opened them a little wider andglanced round the comfortable, well-furnished room, or stared with a coldgleam of hatred at Fletcher as he sat sucking stolidly at his brier pipe.It was a comfortable room and a valuable house, half of which belonged toTrayton Burleigh; and yet he was to leave it in the morning and become arogue and a wanderer over the face of the earth. James Fletcher had saidso. James Fletcher, with the pipe still between his teeth and speakingfrom one corner of his mouth only, had pronounced his sentence."It hasn't occurred to you, I suppose," said Burleigh, speaking suddenly,"that I might refuse your terms.""No," said Fletcher, simply.Burleigh took a great mouthful of smoke and let it roll slowly out."I am to go out and leave you in possession?" he continued. "You willstay here sole proprietor of the house; you will stay at the office soleowner and representative of the firm? You are a good hand at a deal,James Fletcher.""I am an honest man," said Fletcher, "and to raise sufficient money tomake your defalcations good will not by any means leave me the gainer, asyou very well know.""There is no necessity to borrow," began Burleigh, eagerly. "We can paythe interest easily, and in course of time make the principal goodwithout a soul being the wiser.""That you suggested before," said Fletcher, "and my answer is the same.I will be no man's confederate in dishonesty; I will raise every penny atall costs, and save the name of the firm--and yours with it--but I willnever have you darken the office again, or sit in this house afterto-night.""You won't," cried Burleigh, starting up in a frenzy of rage."I won't," said Fletcher. "You can choose the alternative: disgrace andpenal servitude. Don't stand over me; you won't frighten me, I canassure you. Sit down.""You have arranged so many things in your kindness," said Burleigh,slowly, resuming his seat again, "have you arranged how I am to live?""You have two strong hands, and health," replied Fletcher. "I will giveyou the two hundred pounds I mentioned, and after that you must look outfor yourself. You can take it now."He took a leather case from his breast pocket, and drew out a roll ofnotes. Burleigh, watching him calmly, stretched out his hand and tookthem from the table. Then he gave way to a sudden access of rage, andcrumpling them in his hand, threw them into a corner of the room.Fletcher smoked on."Mrs. Marl is out?" said Burleigh, suddenly.Fletcher nodded."She will be away the night," he said, slowly; "and Jane too; they havegone together somewhere, but they will be back at half-past eight in themorning.""You are going to let me have one more breakfast in the old place, then,"said Burleigh. "Half-past eight, half-past----"He rose from his chair again. This time Fletcher took his pipe from hismouth and watched him closely. Burleigh stooped, and picking up thenotes, placed them in his pocket."If I am to be turned adrift, it shall not be to leave you here," hesaid, in a thick voice.He crossed over and shut the door; as he turned back Fletcher rose fromhis chair and stood confronting him. Burleigh put his hand to the wall,and drawing a small Japanese sword from its sheath of carved ivory,stepped slowly toward him."I give you one chance, Fletcher," he said, grimly. "You are a man ofyour word. Hush this up and let things be as they were before, and youare safe.""Put that down," said Fletcher, sharply."By ---, I mean what I say!" cried the other."I mean what I said!" answered Fletcher.He looked round at the last moment for a weapon, then he turned suddenlyat a sharp sudden pain, and saw Burleigh's clenched fist nearly touchinghis breast-bone. The hand came away from his breast again, and somethingwith it. It went a long way off. Trayton Burleigh suddenly went to agreat distance and the room darkened. It got quite dark, and Fletcher,with an attempt to raise his hands, let them fall to his side instead,and fell in a heap to the floor.He was so still that Burleigh could hardly realize that it was all over,and stood stupidly waiting for him to rise again. Then he took out hishandkerchief as though to wipe the sword, and thinking better of it, putit back into his pocket again, and threw the weapon on to the floor.The body of Fletcher lay where it had fallen, the white face turned up tothe gas. In life he had been a commonplace-looking man, not to sayvulgar; now Burleigh, with a feeling of nausea, drew back toward thedoor, until the body was hidden by the table, and relieved from thesight, he could think more clearly. He looked down carefully andexamined his clothes and his boots. Then he crossed the room again, andwith his face averted, turned out the gas. Something seemed to stir inthe darkness, and with a faint cry he blundered toward the door before hehad realized that it was the clock. It struck twelve.He stood at the head of the stairs trying to recover himself; trying tothink. The gas on the landing below, the stairs and the furniture, alllooked so prosaic and familiar that he could not realize what hadoccurred. He walked slowly down and turned the light out. The darknessof the upper part of the house was now almost appalling, and in a suddenpanic he ran down stairs into the lighted hall, and snatching a hat fromthe stand, went to the door and walked down to the gate.Except for one window the neighbouring houses were in darkness, and thelamps shone tip a silent street. There was a little rain in the air, andthe muddy road was full of pebbles. He stood at the gate trying to screwup his courage to enter the house again. Then he noticed a figure comingslowly up the road and keeping close to the palings.The full realization of what he had done broke in upon him when he foundhimself turning to fly from the approach of the constable. The wet capeglistening in the lamplight, the slow, heavy step, made him tremble.Suppose the thing upstairs was not quite dead and should cry out?Suppose the constable should think it strange for him to be standingthere and follow him in? He assumed a careless attitude, which did notfeel careless, and as the man passed bade him good-night, and made aremark as to the weather.Ere the sound of the other's footsteps had gone quite out of hearing,he turned and entered the house again before the sense of companionshipshould have quite departed. The first flight of stairs was lighted bythe gas in the hall, and he went up slowly. Then he struck a match andwent up steadily, past the library door, and with firm fingers turned onthe gas in his bedroom and lit it. He opened the window a little way,and sitting down on his bed, tried to think.He had got eight hours. Eight hours and two hundred pounds in smallnotes. He opened his safe and took out all the loose cash it contained,and walking about the room, gathered up and placed in his pockets sucharticles of jewellery as he possessed.The first horror had now to some extent passed, and was succeeded by thefear of death.With this fear on him he sat down again and tried to think out the firstmoves in that game of skill of which his life was the stake. He hadoften read of people of hasty temper, evading the police for a time, andeventually falling into their hands for lack of the most elementarycommon sense. He had heard it said that they always made some stupidblunder, left behind them some damning clue. He took his revolver from adrawer and saw that it was loaded. If the worst came to the worst, hewould die quickly.Eight hours' start; two hundred odd pounds. He would take lodgings atfirst in some populous district, and let the hair on his face grow. Whenthe hue-and-cry had ceased, he would go abroad and start life again. Hewould go out of a night and post letters to himself, or better still,postcards, which his landlady would read. Postcards from cheery friends,from a sister, from a brother. During the day he would stay in andwrite, as became a man who described himself as a journalist.Or suppose he went to the sea? Who would look for him in flannels,bathing and boating with ordinary happy mortals? He sat and pondered.One might mean life, and the other death. Which?His face burned as he thought of the responsibility of the choice. Somany people went to the sea at that time of year that he would surelypass unnoticed. But at the sea one might meet acquaintances. He got upand nervously paced the room again. It was not so simple, now that itmeant so much, as he had thought.The sharp little clock on the mantel-piece rang out "one," followedimmediately by the deeper note of that in the library. He thought of theclock, it seemed the only live thing in that room, and shuddered. Hewondered whether the thing lying by the far side of the table heard it.He wondered----He started and held his breath with fear. Somewhere down stairs a boardcreaked loudly, then another. He went to the door, and opening it alittle way, but without looking out, listened. The house was so stillthat he could hear the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen below. Heopened the door a little wider and peeped out. As he did so there was asudden sharp outcry on the stairs, and he drew back into the room andstood trembling before he had quite realized that the noise had been madeby the cat. The cry was unmistakable; but what had disturbed it?There was silence again, and he drew near the door once more. He becamecertain that something was moving stealthily on the stairs. He heard theboards creak again, and once the rails of the balustrade rattled. Thesilence and suspense were frightful. Suppose that the something whichhad been Fletcher waited for him in the darkness outside?He fought his fears down, and opening the door, determined to see whatwas beyond. The light from his room streamed out on to the landing, andhe peered about fearfully. Was it fancy, or did the door of Fletcher'sroom opposite close as he looked? Was it fancy, or did the handle of thedoor really turn?In perfect silence, and watching the door as he moved, to see thatnothing came out and followed him, he proceeded slowly down the darkstairs. Then his jaw fell, and he turned sick and faint again. Thelibrary door, which he distinctly remembered closing, and which,moreover, he had seen was closed when he went up stairs to his room, nowstood open some four or five inches. He fancied that there was arustling inside, but his brain refused to be certain. Then plainly andunmistakably he heard a chair pushed against the wall.He crept to the door, hoping to pass it before the thing inside becameaware of his presence. Something crept stealthily about the room. Witha sudden impulse he caught the handle of the door, and, closing itviolently, turned the key in the lock, and ran madly down the stairs.A fearful cry sounded from the room, and a heavy hand beat upon thepanels of the door. The house rang with the blows, but above themsounded the loud hoarse cries of human fear. Burleigh, half-way down tothe hall, stopped with his hand on the balustrade and listened. Thebeating ceased, and a man's voice cried out loudly for God's sake to lethim out.At once Burleigh saw what had happened and what it might mean for him.He had left the hall door open after his visit to the front, and somewandering bird of the night had entered the house. No need for him to gonow. No need to hide either from the hangman's rope or the felon's cell.The fool above had saved him. He turned and ran up stairs again just asthe prisoner in his furious efforts to escape wrenched the handle fromthe door."Who's there?" he cried, loudly."Let me out!" cried a frantic voice. "For God's sake, open the door!There's something here.""Stay where you are!" shouted Burleigh, sternly. "Stay where you are!If you come out, I'll shoot you like a dog!"The only response was a smashing blow on the lock of the door. Burleighraised his pistol, and aiming at the height of a man's chest, firedthrough the panel.The report and the crashing of the wood made one noise, succeeded by anunearthly stillness, then the noise of a window hastily opened. Burleighfled hastily down the stairs, and flinging wide the hall door, shoutedloudly for assistance.It happened that a sergeant and the constable on the beat had just met inthe road. They came toward the house at a run. Burleigh, withincoherent explanations, ran up stairs before them, and halted outsidethe library door. The prisoner was still inside, still trying todemolish the lock of the sturdy oaken door. Burleigh tried to turn thekey, but the lock was too damaged to admit of its moving. The sergeantdrew back, and, shoulder foremost, hurled himself at the door and burstit open.He stumbled into the room, followed by the constable, and two shafts oflight from the lanterns at their belts danced round the room. A manlurking behind the door made a dash for it, and the next instant thethree men were locked together.Burleigh, standing in the doorway, looked on coldly, reserving himselffor the scene which was to follow. Except for the stumbling of the menand the sharp catch of the prisoner's breath, there was no noise. Ahelmet fell off and bounced and rolled along the floor. The men fell;there was a sobbing snarl and a sharp click. A tall figure rose from thefloor; the other, on his knees, still held the man down. The standingfigure felt in his pocket, and, striking a match, lit the gas.The light fell on the flushed face and fair beard of the sergeant. Hewas bare-headed, and his hair dishevelled. Burleigh entered the room andgazed eagerly at the half-insensible man on the floor-a short, thick-setfellow with a white, dirty face and a black moustache. His lip was cutand bled down his neck. Burleigh glanced furtively at the table. Thecloth had come off in the struggle, and was now in the place where he hadleft Fletcher."Hot work, sir," said the sergeant, with a smile. "It's fortunate wewere handy."The prisoner raised a heavy head and looked up with unmistakable terrorin his eyes."All right, sir," he said, trembling, as the constable increased thepressure of his knee. "I 'ain't been in the house ten minutesaltogether. By ---, I've not."The sergeant regarded him curiously."It don't signify," he said, slowly; "ten minutes or ten seconds won'tmake any difference."The man shook and began to whimper."It was 'ere when I come," he said, eagerly; "take that down, sir. I'veonly just come, and it was 'ere when I come. I tried to get away then,but I was locked in.""What was?" demanded the sergeant."That," he said, desperately.The sergeant, following the direction of the terror-stricken black eyes,stooped by the table. Then, with a sharp exclamation, he dragged awaythe cloth. Burleigh, with a sharp cry of horror, reeled back against thewall."All right, sir," said the sergeant, catching him; "all right. Turn yourhead away."He pushed him into a chair, and crossing the room, poured out a glass ofwhiskey and brought it to him. The glass rattled against his teeth, buthe drank it greedily, and then groaned faintly. The sergeant waitedpatiently. There was no hurry."Who is it, sir?" he asked at length."My friend--Fletcher," said Burleigh, with an effort. "We livedtogether." He turned to the prisoner."You damned villain!""He was dead when I come in the room, gentlemen," said the prisoner,strenuously. "He was on the floor dead, and when I see 'im, I tried toget out. S' 'elp me he was. You heard me call out, sir. I shouldn'tha' called out if I'd killed him.""All right," said the sergeant, gruffly; "you'd better hold your tongue,you know.""You keep quiet," urged the constable.The sergeant knelt down and raised the dead man's head."I 'ad nothing to do with it," repeated the man on the floor. "I 'adnothing to do with it. I never thought of such a thing. I've only beenin the place ten minutes; put that down, sir."The sergeant groped with his left hand, and picking up the Japanesesword, held it at him."I've never seen it before," said the prisoner, struggling."It used to hang on the wall," said Burleigh. "He must have snatched itdown. It was on the wall when I left Fletcher a little while ago.""How long?" inquired the sergeant."Perhaps an hour, perhaps half an hour," was the reply. "I went to mybedroom."The man on the floor twisted his head and regarded him narrowly."You done it!" he cried, fiercely. "You done it, and you want me toswing for it.""That 'll do," said the indignant constable.The sergeant let his burden gently to the floor again."You hold your tongue, you devil!" he said, menacingly.He crossed to the table and poured a little spirit into a glass and tookit in his hand. Then he put it down again and crossed to Burleigh."Feeling better, sir?" he asked.The other nodded faintly."You won't want this thing any more," said the sergeant.He pointed to the pistol which the other still held, and taking it fromhim gently, put it into his pocket."You've hurt your wrist, sir," he said, anxiously.Burleigh raised one hand sharply, and then the other."This one, I think," said the sergeant. "I saw it just now."He took the other's wrists in his hand, and suddenly holding them in thegrip of a vice, whipped out something from his pocket--something hard andcold, which snapped suddenly on Burleigh's wrists, and held them fast."That's right," said the sergeant; "keep quiet."The constable turned round in amaze; Burleigh sprang toward himfuriously."Take these things off!" he choked. "Have you gone mad? Take themoff!""All in good time," said the sergeant."Take them off!" cried Burleigh again.For answer the sergeant took him in a powerful grip, and staring steadilyat his white face and gleaming eyes, forced him to the other end of theroom and pushed him into a chair."Collins," he said, sharply."Sir?" said the astonished subordinate."Run to the doctor at the corner hard as you can run!" said the other."This man is not dead!"As the man left the room the sergeant took up the glass of spirits he hadpoured out, and kneeling down by Fletcher again, raised his head andtried to pour a little down his throat. Burleigh, sitting in his corner,watched like one in a trance. He saw the constable return with thebreathless surgeon, saw the three men bending over Fletcher, and then sawthe eyes of the dying man open and the lips of the dying man move. Hewas conscious that the sergeant made some notes in a pocket-book, andthat all three men eyed him closely. The sergeant stepped toward him andplaced his hand on his shoulder, and obedient to the touch, he arose andwent with him out into the night.